


i fall to pieces (when i'm with you)

by ihowlforyou



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Derek Hale, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Angst, Deputy Derek Hale, M/M, Omega Stiles Stilinski, Sick Stiles Stilinski, Sort Of, dub con
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-20
Updated: 2017-08-20
Packaged: 2018-12-17 22:10:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11860632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ihowlforyou/pseuds/ihowlforyou
Summary: The first heat of Stiles Stilinski is complicated by a health emergency. Good thing Deputy Derek is there to help out. Right?





	1. Chapter 1

“I really appreciate you taking the time to help this kid out on your day off,” the Sheriff says, tousling his son’s hair good naturedly on his way out the door. Derek is over the Stilinski's house, his boss's house, helping Stiles with his homework. “He used to be pretty good at chemistry. Not his strongest subject, maybe, but better than the last few tests have shown. You may have your work cut out for you.”

“I’m _right here_ , Dad,” Stiles grouses, words slightly garbled by the highlighter jammed in his mouth. He was paused in his concentrated effort to color his entire textbook bright yellow. Derek wished he didn't experience the surge of affection.

“It’s no trouble, Sheriff,” Derek replies easily. And it isn’t. He had actually minored in Chemistry in college, back when he was pre-med, back before life had his way with him and steered him towards a career in law enforcement. He loves his job as deputy in Beacon Hills, but he can’t bury his science nerd side entirely.

And spending an afternoon with the oddly charming Omega son of his boss isn’t exactly a hardship.

But Derek would keep that reason tucked close to his chest.

“If you’re sure,” the Sheriff responds, eyeing the two of them. He grabs his jacket, checks for his keys, and nods at them solemnly. “I appreciate it. I’ll be back sometime this evening. Be sure to give me a call if this one gives you any trouble -"

“Again, Dad, I’m right here!” Stiles cries, pinwheeling his arms as he launches out of the chair to shepherd his father to the door. “I’m an idiot, I’m a trouble maker, Deputy Derek is a saint for putting up with me - blahblahblah - we get it - “

“That’s not what I meant,” the Sheriff sighs. He presses a kiss to Stiles’ forehead and allows himself to be steered. “Just be good.”

“When am I not?” Stiles waves impatiently. “Bye bye now.”

-

They’re an hour and forty-five minutes into their tutoring session.

Derek has been earnestly trying to explain stoichiometry while Stiles parrots back the concepts, using rather convoluted analogies and metaphors involving characters from comic books.

“Right, right,” Derek says hollowly, marveling at whatever odd mechanics go on inside the skull of the omega, who is now fidgeting restlessly in his chair. “It’s all about balance.”

“Got it,” Stiles says. He jots something down on his paper and then sucks the pencil back into his mouth, running it along the seam mindlessly. There’s a frenetic jiggling of his leg that Derek can sense under the table. The hairs brushing the collar of his plaid shirt seem damp.

“Are you alright?” Derek asks, suddenly feeling a bit on edge himself.

“Yeah,” Stiles answers immediately, blinking up at him guilelessly. “Why?”

Derek just silently watches him.

“I do feel kind of strange.” Stiles scratches at his cheek and frowns down at himself. “Do you feel hot all of a sudden?”

“Not really,” Derek replies. Though he is beginning to feel something else. He recognizes a tension that has developed in his own shoulders. Heavy and expectant, like bracing for a fight.

“Let me check the thermostat,” Stiles says. And he rises from his chair to do so. And Derek’s eyes trace Stiles’ form as he goes - his shirt blackened with perspiration in areas. The boy has sweat through both his t-shirt and the flannel over shirt he’s wearing. Derek clenches his fists.

“It’s not the thermostat, Stiles,” Derek says. He wonders if he sounds as choked as he feels.

Stiles doesn’t make any indication that he hears Derek, intently fumbling with the buttons of the thermostat.

“It says it’s only seventy-two degrees,” Stiles mumbles, sounding incredulous. “What the hell - ”

“Stiles,” Derek says again. He can’t bring himself to say anything else. He’s burning up himself, with something like embarrassment. For himself or for Stiles, it’s anyone’s guess.

Stiles stares blankly at the thermostat for a little while longer. Then he turns, slowly but with intention, to face Derek.

“Yeah,” Stiles says, voice quiet.

Their gazes lock. Derek suddenly feels supremely awkward.

“This is, um.” Stiles gazes at Derek strangely, looking suddenly younger and more lost than Derek has ever seen him. “You know.”

“I should go,” Derek says abruptly. He stands and makes his way to the door. He has every intention of leaving, truly, of getting out, of leaving Stiles to his own - but in order to do so, Derek must _pass by Stiles_ and that - Oh _boy_. That is enough to stop him in his tracks. Stiles is putting off heat like a furnace and smells - Derek practically feels his eyes roll back in his head, his claws popping out uninvited, something _else_ about to pop out uninvited if he doesn’t -

“Please,” Stiles says, and he sounds almost distraught. His eyes are wide and - scared? “I’ve never - This hasn’t - “

“You’ve never gone into heat before?” Derek asks, and he almost punches himself in the face at dropping the _H word_. Why is he still here, why is he talking, he needs to leave -

“Late bloomer, I guess,” Stiles replies, a quirk to his mouth and his whole countenance softening ever so slightly. “Thought it wouldn’t ever happen, to be honest. I guess something about you must have pulled my trigger.”

“We should call your dad then. And I should go,” Derek says again. It's as if he's coaching himself. “I should go.”

“Do you though?” Stiles asks. He is wide eyed and looking fragile enough to smash with bare hands. “Do you have to leave?”

It is absolutely the wrong thing to do - to seize Stiles’ body like this, to press him against the wall of the dining room mere inches away from an old family photo of the Stilinski family. Derek should feel the phantom judging eyes of Mrs. and Sheriff Stilinski on his back, recoil at their probable disgust at him sucking on their baby boy’s neck and palming him roughly through his wrinkled khaki pants. Derek recognizes all of this, distantly. But he can't find it in himself to care, suddenly.

“Shit,” Stiles chokes out, returning Derek’s embrace, grabbing at Derek’s hips and giving a full body shudder that has him gasping open mouthed and astonished. “Shit - shit - _what's_ -”

“Tell me to go,” Derek mutters into Stiles’ neck. Despite the words, he continues to kiss the boy urgently, tracing his way up to Stiles’ chin and inhaling deeply. “Tell me to go now.”

“Derek,” is all Stiles says back. “Derek - ” He thrusts his hips up, whines needy and mindlessly. Derek pulls back enough to look at him fully, sees how Stiles’ pupils have blown. Oh, the boy is _in it_ , now. Derek has gone too far already - pulled Stiles’ trigger, so to speak. “Don’t -” Stiles grimaces, the words sounding clawed out from him painfully. He's positively clinging to Derek now, as if he could collapse at any minute. “Don’t _leave_ me.”

Fuck. Derek couldn’t leave now, even if he _wanted_ to.

“I'm not. I got you.” Derek cradles Stiles to him. “I got you.”

There isn’t enough time for finesse. When Derek first presses against Stiles’ hole, feels the slick oozing out against his fingers, Stiles jerks in his arms like he’s been electrocuted. Derek plugs him up with three fingers and jacks him relentlessly, efficiently, gaze never leaving Stiles’ face. He watches with a swell of unbridled affection as pleasure crests over Stiles and wrings his body dry. He gathers him close, presses kisses to that freckled face, thinking to himself that even if this was the _wrong_ thing to do, maybe it was still right in it's own way.

Because Derek expects Stiles to feel better, feel more steady and himself, after this orgasm.

Instead, Stiles gets worse.

Stiles is hot under Derek’s hands, clothes still sticky with sweat. The boy is at a rolling boil, fever burning through him hot and quick.

There are stages to heat. It’s something Derek had been required to memorize during his sex ed classes during high school, then again in his bio college classes, then for health training in the police academy. Derek is feeling too affected from Stiles’ pheromones to calculate exactly where Stiles is, but the glazed and deadened look in his eyes, his uncoordinated body movements - it tells Derek that he’s progressed pretty far, pretty rapidly.

This isn't normal.

Derek has heard of heats gone south - omegas left unattended is a cruel thing. It can result in exquisite pain, even accidental self mutilation in a frenzied pursuit of satisfaction. Prolonged elevated body temperature can cause seizures, irreversible brain damage, even death.

Derek isn’t going to let that happen today.

“Let’s go, Stiles,” Derek says, trying to direct the boy up the stairs to his bedroom. Stiles has all the strength and balance of a black out drunk. He collapses on the stairs, pawing at Derek’s jeans. Derek can't tell if he's grasping for support or for something else. “No, Stiles, we need to get you to your bed - ”

Derek isn't about to knot a teenager on a carpeted staircase in front of a bay window.

“Wan’ it - ” Stiles begins to say, then his words trail off into garbled nonsense. Fear spikes through Derek’s own haze of arousal. It’s astonishing that the quick witted smart mouthed _Stiles_ could devolve into this. This isn’t the normal escalation of mania in heat. This is definitely something else.

“Stiles,” Derek grips the boy’s slack face in his hands, tries to make eye contact. Stiles makes a pitiful attempt to lick one of Derek’s fingers. “Stiles, do you know where you are right now?”

“Wan’ it,” Stiles replies simply, rolling his hips into Derek’s. "Wan' it - wan' it - wan' it - "

“Stiles, this is very important.” The omega is completely disoriented. Derek suddenly realizes what may be happening, flashing back to his old premed classes about emergency situations. Like status asthmaticus or status epilepticus: _Status omegus._ A condition where one heat frenzy immediately follows another one, unbroken by the usual period of lucidity that orgasm briefly brings. “Stiles, you may be very sick.”

“Yeaaaaaah,” Stiles moans, and Derek feels a short-lived sense of relief that Stiles is alert and agreeing with him - until the boy goes rigid in his arms and begins to violently seize.

—

“Your instinct was right,” the doctor tells Derek later, at the hospital. “Stiles was indeed in the beginning throes of status omegus. If you had waited any longer to bring him in, there’s a good chance things could be much worse.”

Derek laughs mirthlessly. He stares at the hospital bed where Stiles is sleeping, if you could call it that. He’s been placed in a medically induced coma, breathing through a tube, the rise and fall of his chest mechanically driven and scheduled and so so unnatural. “I don’t see how.”

It had undoubtedly been one of the worst afternoons of Derek's life. He had panicked and tried to remember what his first aid training taught him about omega heat emergencies. He couldn't knot Stiles in that state - he could barely achieve or maintain his erection as he stared at Stiles, face pale and flecked with vomit, unconscious. The only thing that got Derek to orgasm without vomiting himself was the fact he knew he had to administer his Alpha come onto the mucous membranes of an omega in distress. It was omega first aid, it was Alpha instinct. It still didn't make Derek feel any better, any less guilty, as he remembered rubbing his come into Stiles' limp body before depositing him under the cool trickle of the shower as Derek stumbled off to phone for 911.

“Hey,” the Sheriff says, placing a hand on Derek’s shoulder. His eyes are red rimmed and he looks destroyed. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. If you hadn’t been there, who knows what would have - ” Sheriff abruptly cuts himself off, covering his mouth with a fist as his face contorts in a new wave a grief.  
  
  
“The blood test results may shed a little light on what brought this on,” the doctor continues after giving the sheriff a moment to collect himself. “The toxicology report showed traces of a compound that used to be included in omega supplements.” The doctor’s face is grim. “It has been banned in the United States for the past fifteen years because it has been known to cause health problems such as inducing status omegus, these wild and intractable heats. Of course, anything can be bought on the internet these days.”

“God damnit, Stiles,” the sheriff growls. “Why the hell - What the hell was he thinking?”

The doctor sighs, casting an appraising look at Stiles’ prone form. “It’s possible he could have been feeling the pressure of delayed heat presentation. It’s not unheard of for omegas to - try and hurry things along themselves.”

“God damnit, Stiles,” the sheriff curses again. Derek can’t help but agree with him.

“What do we do now?” Derek asks, feeling hopeless and useless and almost as if he is intruding on the Stilinskis’ privacy. But he can’t bring himself to leave.

“We wait, for now. Let his body rest and reacclimatize.” The doctor gestures to the array of machines and tubing surrounding Stiles. “I don’t anticipate him needing all of this for very long. We’ll try a pressure support trial in the morning to see if we can get him off the ventilator, and we’ll be keeping a close eye on his blood work and vitals until then.”

“Will he be alright?” Derek can’t help himself from asking. What he really wants to ask is - will Stiles ever be himself again? Be normal again? Or, as normal as Stiles ever was?

“I’m hoping for the best,” the doctor answers, and Derek is torn between rage at the man’s vague and evasive answer and elation at the glimmer of hope. “Let’s take it a day at a time. Stiles will likely need a lot of support.”

“You mean a nursing home?” the sheriff says dully. Derek feels like throwing up. “I went through this with his mother.”

The doctor is shaking his head. “I mean, support with a steady alpha presence. Even after he recovers, this episode is likely to leave Stiles very unstable, from a hormonal perspective. Especially since he was a heat novice, the…long term ramifications of such a traumatic first heat are still something we’ll have to see.”

“We’ll have to see,” the sheriff echoes faintly.

“I’ll be here,” Derek says, with a strength that he hardly feels. But he’s focusing on Stiles now. He’s _forcing_ himself to remember the vibrant youth who had diligently brought his father healthy dinners at the station, who had smiled and laughed with Derek across the table top as they worked through chemistry equations together, who had his whole fucking _life_ ahead of him. Stiles was going to get off that machine, get up off the bed. There was no question. This wasn't optional. Stiles was going to finish that god damn chemistry homework. Stiles was going to grow up and he was going to fall in love, one day, maybe, and have a heat - a true, good heat like they were _meant_ to be - and Stiles was going to _live_ , he was going to live - he had to live -

“I’ll be here.”

It is an oath.

tbc


	2. Chapter 2

Stiles has a hard time coming.

He’ll be going at it, right - jerking it, or fucking it, whatever. Cruise control and smooth sailing. But the steady incline of an orgasm just doesn’t _happen_ for him. At most he like, plateaus. Trickles out an orgasm so pathetic and underwhelming, it’s almost rage-inducing.

Stiles isn’t sure which is worse: the grey toned shadows of normal feelings and experience, or just straight numbness.

They both suck.

But Stiles still gobbles down his pills, his suppressants -  
  
_( “They’re not suppressants, Stiles,” the doctor would say gently. “They’re not suppressing anything. You’re still an omega. This is just bringing you back to baseline. They’re stabilizers, if anything.” )_

Whatever. Stiles takes his stabilizers like a good little omega and smiles emptily at the therapists who ask him how he’s feeling and lies through his teeth that everything is fine.

What’s Stiles feeling? He’s feeling nothing. Nothing except for maybe the occasional pierce of panic that manages to penetrate this dense cloud of blah.

So yeah - Stiles has a hard time coming.

But that doesn’t stop him from trying.

“Fuck,” Stiles cries out, biting his lip and bracing himself on the headrest. He bouncing on the dick of some beta he met at a study group in the front seat of his Jeep. The beta is cute, has a pretty nice dick too. They had locked eyes a few weeks ago, but nothing had happened until tonight. Stiles was feeling bored. “ _Fuck_ ,” he says again, with feeling, when the beta adjusts his grip and thrusts up into him on a rhythm to make Stiles’ teeth clack.

Stiles refrains from calling himself a slut or a bad person, even in his own head. Maybe he’s done slutty things, sure. Things that have made Scott gape at him in disbelief and his father install home security cameras to catch Stiles out on a lie. Maybe he’s woken up in a stranger’s bed with little to no memory of the night before. Maybe he’s had cocks on his lips that belong to men Stiles couldn’t name for the life of him. Couldn’t recognize out of a line up even.

It’s just that life is bland, like a bowl of cold congealing oatmeal. The occasional one night stand is akin to dropping a few raisins or even a dollop of peanut butter in. It’s still oatmeal, Stiles still hates it, but it’s mixed up a little and just palatable enough for the next mouthful.

“We should have been doing this weeks ago,” the beta beneath him says, sounding gleeful. “You’re so fucking gorgeous.” Stiles barely manages to restrain himself from rolling his eyes.

“Just shut up,” he replies, tilting his head back and closing his eyes, arching his back trying to chase a faint bit of pleasure that may, fingers crossed, herald a respectable orgasm for once.

“Look so good on my cock, god damn - ”

“WHAT did I just say?” Stiles hisses. “Jesus, you really are fucking ruining this - ”

“Yo, what is your problem - ”

Then the sound of police sirens fills the air and Stiles feels his boner well and truly deflate.

“Great,” he mutters, feeling frustrated beyond belief. He flings himself off the beta - what’s his name again? Kevin? Kyle? Whatever. Stiles quickly does up his pants and belt buckle, runs a hand through his hair. The beta is just sitting there slack jawed, dick waving in the breeze. “Are you _dumb_?” Stiles shrieks at him. “Get your pants on!”

It’s a close thing, but Stiles and mystery-beta-his-name-probably-starts-with-a-K are fully dressed and sitting primly when the officer approaches the vehicle, swinging a flashlight in the window.

“Is that really necessary?” Stiles says, crabbily, as the light scorches his retinas enough that he doesn’t identify the officer at first. There is an awkward pause.

“License and registration, please.”

Sure enough, when the flash light is lowered, Stiles is encountered with the unimpressed face of Derek Hale. Good old Derek - one of his father’s deputies, one of Stiles’ childhood crushes, the dude who had more or less saved Stiles from fucking himself stupid at the age of sixteen. That Derek Hale. The guy who always seems to be creeping in Stiles’ peripheral vision, somehow always reserving a front row seat to Stiles’ embarrassing moments. Like now.

“Dude, _really_?” is all Stiles can come up with. Derek crooks an eyebrow, tightens his jaw. His whole demeanor seems to scream _TEST ME STILES I DARE YOU_. Stiles sighs, reaches for the documents. When Derek has them in hand, he doesn’t even bother glancing at them, eyes trained only on Stiles.

“What are you two up to out here?”

Stiles waves a hand, dismissive and hopefully cool-appearing. “Nice night for a drive. Teaching Kevin here - ”

“Andrew,” the beta mutters. “My name is Andrew.”

“Right,” Stiles says, wishing the floor of the jeep would open up and swallow him entirely. “Like I was saying. Just, y’know, teaching my buddy here how to drive stick shift.” Stiles winces, rubs his neck awkwardly. He doesn’t even know why he’s bothering to lie right now. The car plainly reeks of sex, and it is probably more intense to Derek’s werewolf senses.

“Right,” Derek echoes tonelessly. Stiles stares intently at the glove compartment in front of him. “Andrew, huh? Andrew Augustin?”

“Yes,” the beta - Andrew, apparently. _God_ , Stiles is crap at names, this is embarassing - practically whimpers.

“It’s nine-thirty.” Stiles fails to understand the implication until Derek continues on, “If I remember correctly, the conditions for your parole stipulate a daily curfew of ten.” Andrew swears softly. “Consider this a warning. If you leave now, you may make it home on time.”

“Yes, officer, thank you, officer,” Andrew babbles gratefully. Stiles is wondering to himself what _exactly_ the dude did to be on parole, what the fuck. Maybe he should start being a bit more fastidious in vetting his bang buddies. But then again, he can barely be counted on to remember their first names…

“Well, if that’s all, I guess we’ll be going!” Stiles says brightly and moves to do up the window. Derek’s hand darts forward to cover Stiles’. Stiles stares at it, blinking.

“Not so fast, Stiles. We’re not done here.”

Stiles figured as much, because his life sucks. He vaguely hears Andrew say something, then the door slamming, then running footsteps fading away in the distance.

Just him and Derek now.

Stiles sighs, feeling very tired. He lets his head fall back against the seat, closes his eyes, almost in surrender.

“What do you want, Derek?”

“You know what I want, Stiles?” Stiles’ head jerks up at the amount of anger in the man’s voice. “What I _want_ is for you to stop behaving like such an irresponsible idiot for once.”

Stiles lets out a long low whistle. He feels something like shame burn in his stomach, but he swallows it down. “That’s a mighty tall order, deputy.”

“Are you fucking kidding me with this, Stiles? This attitude, where did it come from? What is the _matter_ with you? Why are you out here doing - with someone like - Do you even realize - ”

“I get enough lectures from my dad, thanks,” Stiles says loudly, hoping to cut this conversation off at the quick. All the same, he feels a buzz of something like excitement beneath his skin. When you feel like you’re sleepwalking through life, having people get up in your face like this can be somewhat… exhilarating. If he can't have a good fuck, he'll have a good fight. “Thanks ever so.”

“You may not give a shit about your life but other people do,” Derek says. “If you don’t respect yourself enough, at least remember that.”

“And what the hell would you know about respect, Derek?” Stiles replies, and he is surprised that he’s started to yell. “What do you think you know about me? You don't know anything! Why won’t you leave me the hell alone?” And Stiles hates - HATES - the way his voice seems to crack on the last word.

Derek huffs. “I’m looking out for you. I've always looked out for you - ”

“Yeah, well quit doing me any favors,” Stiles says sourly. He scoots himself away from Derek into the driver’s seat. “I never asked for it. I never asked for you.”

“Yeah, well, I never asked for you either, Stiles,” is Derek’s quiet response, and oh does _that_ set off something like dynamite at the base of Stiles’ skull.

“You know,” Stiles can feel his face contorting into an ugly expression, not sure if he’s about to start crying or screaming. Maybe both. “I’m getting really sick and tired of people like you reminding me of a mistake I made when I was fucking sixteen years old!”

“I know the feeling,” Derek responds, but Stiles is too riled up, too upset to pay that comment any mind.

“I was sixteen years old,” Stiles says again, shakily. “I made a mistake. One stupid fucking mistake. I had just wanted you to _like_ me - ” Stiles slaps a hand over his mouth, as if to physically smoosh all the words back inside him. He can feel the hot prickle of tears collecting behind his eyes and he wants to rage at the world. He exhales wetly into his fist.

Seriously, fuck Derek. Fuck him sideways for reminding Stiles of what a fuck up he truly is, has been ever since he made that dumb, juvenile fated google search two years ago - _how to make alphas like you._

Stiles remembers, with the familiar stab of regret and humiliation, how he had sent away for those dumb omega “vitamins” that promised to “maximize the natural allure of any omega.”

He remembers anxiously waiting for the package, fantasizing about the bright green eyes of his dad’s favorite deputy finally being directed on Stiles. He had wished and wished for his heat to just start already, wished to grow up into a man ready and deserving of attention from someone like Derek Hale.

What a shit show that had turned out to be.

After one dose of those satanic “vitamins” and one tutoring session that Stiles had orchestrated under false pretenses (he was doing great in chemistry, by the way, he had just needed an excuse for Derek to come over) - Stiles’ life and all of the things he had expected from it had come crashing down.

Stiles wrenches himself out of his memories and forces himself to stare Derek down, careless of the tears now streaked down his face. “So, are you gonna arrest me or what?”

The deputy looks anguished. “ _Arrest_ you? No, Stiles - ”

“Good. Then leave me the hell alone and stay away from me.”

He starts up his car and drives away.

tbc

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thoughts?! don't worry, we need to break them in order to put them back together again :D

**Author's Note:**

> more to come! comments welcome.


End file.
